Ethan – Two Years Later

"Ethan! How's your leg?"

"Ethan, who's starting in tonight's game?"

"Ethan, are you and Lacey Riveria back on again?"

I try to shut out the sounds of the reporters as I walk from the parking lot to the brand-new stadium in Miami. I tuck my hat down and keep moving, pretending I don’t hear them, especially the part about the singer, Lacey Riveria, who the media mistakenly thinks I’m dating.

We were at a party together a few weeks ago, and she tweeted a photo of us together. The truth is, she walked up to me and just took the picture without even asking. I was kind of flattered, but now that the rumor mill has got going, I'm pretty pissed.

Lacey is not my type at all. She’s way overdone—fake everything from lips to breasts to butt. Plus, she’s dumb as all hell. Plus, she’s not Jess.

The thought of Jess makes my gut ache. I know I have to forget her but I can’t. It’s like I left my heart with her and I have to see her again to get it back, even though she dumped me like last week’s garbage.

I left messages at her house for months after I first moved to Arizona, but she never returned my calls. Her mom told me that she wasn't living there anymore. At first, I thought it was a lie until I called and her nephew answered. He told me the same thing. I don't know much about kids, but I don't think that ones as small as him are great at lying. She moved and didn't want me to know where. So, I guess that what I thought we had didn't mean much to her after all.

I push thoughts of Jessica out of my head as I walk the long hall to the team’s dressing room. One night in Miami, then we fly back home in the morning to prepare for next weekend’s game. I’m not complaining. I love my life. I’m living most guys’ fantasy. I just signed one of the biggest contracts in pro-football history. I can pretty much have any woman I want. The only problem is I don’t want any of them. And the one I do want, I can’t find anywhere. And even if I did find her, it’s not like she’d care.

The team’s trainer, Gary, meets me when I walk in the room. “How’s the quad?”

“It’s not bad. A bit stiff this morning.”

"Figured as much, so I booked a massage for you. The therapist is waiting in the training room." He tosses a towel at me, then points to a door on the other side of the locker room. "Go see her first. I'll tell Jim you'll be late for warm-up."

I nod, dropping my bag on the bench. “Thanks.”

I strip down, then wrap the towel around my waist and cross the room thinking of how strange it is that in a minute, I'll be naked in front of a woman I don't know. And nothing will happen other than me getting the kinks worked out of my quad. I've had so many injuries over the past two years that I've gotten used to being poked and prodded and massaged. It's funny how it becomes no big deal after a while.

When I walk in the room, it's dimly-lit, and there is calming music playing. I hear the tap running in the attached bathroom, and I call out hello.

“I’m Ethan. I’m here for work on my right quad.”

There is a long pause before the door opens and there she is, frozen where she stands, her blonde hair tucked into a messy bun.

* * *

“Jess.” My heart pounds in my chest. She looks so incredibly beautiful that my first impulse is to rush to her, pull her into my arms and kiss her. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks—the way she brushed me off like I meant nothing to her. I keep my feet rooted to the ground and try to figure out how to play this.

She grips the wall like her knees are going weak, but I'm sure it's not because she's been missing me so much that she can hardly believe I'm here. More like she wishes she had called in sick for work today so she wouldn't have to face me.

“Small world,” I say, fighting to keep any emotion out of my voice.

She gives me a slight nod. “A little too small, maybe.”

What the hell? She’s mad at me?

Jess takes a couple of steps into the room, then grabs a file off the counter. She opens it. “It says here you pulled your vastus lateralis two weeks ago?”

I stare at her for a moment, but she won't look at me. She keeps her eyes on the paper in front of her as though there's a whole lot more she'll learn from it.

“Yeah. I twisted my leg in a way it wasn’t meant to be twisted.”

“Okay, well, have a seat on the table so I can get to work on it.” She puts the file down, then picks up a bottle of massage oil and squirts some into her palms.

“So that’s how you want to play it?” I fold my arms across my bare chest. “You want to pretend you don’t know me.”

“I don’t think I do know you. The Ethan I thought I knew didn’t exist.”

“How can you—”

“Don’t you dare pretend that you're the one who got hurt," she says, pointing one finger at me. Shaking her head, she says, "You know what? Forget it. None of that matters. I need this job, and you need a massage, so let's both just act like professionals and get this over with."

“Fine,” I say, hopping up on the table even though I’m totally pissed right now. My ego won’t let me walk out. I need to prove to her I can handle this.

She pauses for a moment, looking a little uncomfortable, then steps forward and puts her hands on my thigh. My cock twitches and I have to dig my nails into my palms to fight the hard-on that’s building. I cannot get hard right now. No matter how fucking good she smells. No matter how she looks.

I stare straight ahead which makes me eye-level with her. She keeps her gaze on my leg as she rubs her way up the center of my thigh. “Hurts there, right?”

“Nope.”

Leveling me with a dirty look, Jess says, “This works much better if the patient isn’t trying to be a tough guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, locking eyes with her.

"Well, according to your chart, this is where you're injured so you should feel something. If you're all healed up, there's no need for me, is there?"

“Wrong leg.”

“Shit,” she mutters, yanking her hands back. She takes a deep breath, then moves over to my right leg.

When she hits the right spot, I wince the slightest bit.

“Right there?”

"Yep." Christ, she smells good, even if she is a heartless bitch. My hands itch to reach out and touch her, but instead, I just sit and stare at her, taking in as much as I can while she works. Finally, when I can't take it anymore, I turn my head and look down at the floor, trying to pretend it's not her touching me—I tell myself it's some old guy. I tell myself it means nothing, which is true, I guess.

She moves a little closer now so she can work on my upper thigh. I hold my breath, trying not to notice that her face is so close to mine now that I would barely have to move to kiss her. No, dammit, don’t think about that.

I glance at her hands. No ring. But I guess that doesn’t mean much since she probably would take it off when she goes to work. She presses her thumbs into my muscle and runs them the length of my quad, working the oil into my skin. The warmth of her touch is so familiar, so perfect, that I find the last two years erasing from my mind. All the pain, all the questions seem pointless now that she’s right here again.

Before I can stop myself, I say, “Why’d you move to Florida? For some guy.”

"Something like that." Her voice is quiet, and I can't read the expression on her face. She doesn't seem to want to fight. She doesn't want to talk. I watch as she lifts her hands from my leg and walks to the counter to get more oil.

God, she has the best curves I’ve seen. It’s all I can do to stay on the table instead of getting up and walking up behind her and pressing myself against her back.

“I need you to lay down so I can work the entire quad.”

“Sure thing, Jess. Whatever you need.”